


An Inquiry on Romano

by orphan_account



Series: Monsterverse [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Strappado, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:12:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3396500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romano is kidnapped and tortured by the Spanish Inquisition. What will Spain do when he happens upon the scene?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, finally got the second chapter out  
> I think I might have gone a little overboard with the historical context, but what can I say. Historical context is the shit.

“Romano!”  Belgium calls. “I have finished your tomato soup!”

She frowns, wondering where the little colony had gotten to. She shook her head and pursed her lips. The bad tempered boy is more trouble than he is worth, that’s what she thought.  The Italian brothers had plagued the world with war for decades now. The other boy, Veniceanio at least brought wealth to Austria and she’d heard that the northern half of the country was rather sweet and good natured, could even clean too.

Romano, on the other hand, is spoiled lazy and poor. He had tried her patience almost from the moment they’d met and Belgium considers herself to be an easy going women. Belgium, for the life of her couldn’t understand why Spain fights so hard to keep the territory. Let France have him she’d say if anyone bothered to ask her. Let Romano become the frog’s problem

But Spain had ordered that Belgium and her brother move to his house in Spain to take care of him, and that’s what she’d done. Spain must realize what a painful thing the boy was, she reasoned, it was just a testimony to his tolerance that he put up with the snot nosed brat. One of these days Spain would realize that Belgium is his most devoted colony. It has not been long since he  gained possession of her. Maybe if she just continues to show kindness to the little monster...

“Romano dear!” she calls, “Where have you gotten to?” Belgium mentally checks off which doors she had locked that morning. She couldn’t let the colony near anything nice. Spain himself has to keep all his weaponry and heirlooms in the basement of this gigantic house to keep them out of harm’s way. Really there had never been a clumsier boy!

The parlor and bedrooms are locked and she is reasonably sure Netherlands had offhandedly told the boy enough creepy things to keep him out of the basement. It keeps her out of the basement after all.

“Brother!” Belgium calls. She frowns, there is no answer. She leaves the soup on the counter and exits the kitchen. Spain’s home was one of the most gigantic buildings she had ever lived in, which is saying something for her own home is quite large. It takes a long time to search every room for the boy. No sign of Netherlands or Romano. That was strange.

Belgium is starting to become uneasy.

She finds herself recalling how strange the boy had been acting the past couple days. There has been something on his mind that was for sure. She had chalked it up to the letter Spain had sent a few days before, telling of his final defeat of France, establishing Naples and Sicily as provinces of Spain.

Maybe Netherlands has taken the boy out to play? It is unlikely; Netherlands never wants anything to do with the boy and avoids him whenever possible. Her brother is less easygoing than herself.

Still she didn’t have any better ideas, a so she runs down the steps and checks outside. She sees Netherlands working in the fields but no sign of Romano.

She goes to the front door to ask her brother what he knows about Romano’s whereabouts but as she reaches for the handle, Belgium realizes it’s unlocked.

She rushes out the door and runs toward her brother. He looks up face hard, but no harder than usual.

“What’s wrong sister?” He asks concerned.

“Do you know where Romano is?” Belgium implores.

His brow furrows, “I assumed he was with you”, he admits.

“I think he has run away.” She explains in a rush. Her brother is so careful and meticulous, there was no way he would ever leave the front door unlocked, the careless good for nothing boy on the other hand-.

Netherlands lets go of the plow immediately. The horses nay a bit and stamp in boredom but her brother pays no attention.

“What should we do, Spain will not be pleased-“He begins

“Don’t worry.” Belgium says steadily “I will take care of this.”

 

* * *

 

 

Damn it

I’m sitting in a hot damp room that smells like the fucking plague. There’s probably rats, scratch that, there are definitely rats. I hear one scuttling around now, disgusting. That explains the smell. I am sweating a lot too, drenched even. Fucking annoying as hell. So yes I snuck out, big deal, was this all really necessary?

Yeah I would expect this kind of shit from Austria. The piano bastard would lock me and my fratello up when I was misbehaving or Feli pigged out on all of his crappy food. Spain though, well, he’d never really punished me before. He would yell sometimes, and look at me hopelessly constantly but he had always been surprisingly lenient. Truthfully this whole throwing-into-a-room-locking-the-door-and-shoving-the-key-up-his-ass thing is coming as a bit of a surprise.

But not that much. After all, I’m not under any delusion that he actually cares about me. I’m not fucking stupid.

Things have been rather calm lately. Well, less turbulent. For like a fucking eternity, France and Spain have been fighting over me, just me, not my brother. For the record. I guess Austria has too good a hold on Feli for France to swoop in. In the past few years though, France finally started to get the message through his thick stupid brain that Spain wasn’t handing me over. Now they were signing some treaty that basically said the France would get the fuck out of Spain’s ass and stop trying to rape me.

In recent years, we hadn’t seen much of Spain. Either he was off setting his people up in the Holy Roman Empire, the little bitch, squabbling with England or France, or acquiring other territories. He was never home.

His home, not mine obviously.

I was a Spanish territory way before the asshole Netherlands and pretty Belgium were. Still, they were the ones watching over me to make sure French soldiers didn’t come to snatch me up all this time. But now, France lost and Spain was undisputedly in control of the Kingdom of Naples. Plus the Papal States had been under Spain’s control since that disgusting, vial, little piece of shit emperor sacked Rome some thirty years back.

Hip hip fucking hurray.

Excuse me if I thought that someone who actually gave a shit about my half of the country should be there when jerk bastard Spain and jerk bastard France decide my future. Was Spain South Italy? I didn’t think so. That’s me! Romano!  Fuck you if you’re going to tell me I am supposed to stay with the admittedly tolerable Belgium and the stingy weird-ass Netherlands. It’s just not going to happen!

So I snuck out. It wasn’t hard. Netherlands was too busy working and Belgium is too busy like cooking for him or something. I don’t know. I thought I smelled something good as I was leaving the house.

Thing is, apparently no one can do a single god damn thing in Spain without being arrested. So I  am there riding on a horse minding my own business and the fucking Spanish Inquisition pops out of nowhere and are like ‘by the way we are arresting you for no goddamn reason’ and that’s a direct quote! I mean sure I look like a ten (Even though I am just as old as those cocksuckers Austria Spain and France!) year old boy in a maids dress. But it’s not like I like these clothes! That Spanish pervert makes me wear them, the bastard.

I will admit I did not expect them. Excuse me if I thought they would be like I don’t know, doing their job. Rooting out devil worshipers or something. Or worse, those German Protestants. Mark my words they are on the rise! Oh course it would be the Germans defiling the Holy Catholic Church.

Then they throw me in this cell, rather roughly I might add. Spain is not going to hear the end of this one. I have been sitting for hours I swear. Wondering when or if they were going to bring me food anytime soon. I am famished. If Spain wants any mercy what-so-ever he better show up now with a whole basket of tomatoes. And by god, if he’s wearing red, I will kill him.

 Hours tick by and the hunger starts to grow uncomfortable. My anger is smoldering and I am inwardly cursing Spain in every language I know except Spanish, because I obviously don’t know Spanish because it’s fucking impossible. Plus For some reason, probably because he’s stupid, the idiot gets really happy when I call him a bastard in his native language. And that defeats the purpose of calling him a bastard.

More time past, I tried to take a nap but it was really fucking hot so I couldn’t. Fucking Spain.

Finally after what must have been days, the door swings open. Seven or eight men enter the room. And guess what! They’re wearing red, the bastards. I scan through them trying to catch sight of any food they might have brought. By now I am dying of starvation. Unfortunately I see nothing. They are all really quiet and none of them move at all. That makes it clear that there is no way the jerk is among them. Figures that he would not even come to face me himself.

“We are going to ask you some simple questions.” says a low voice in Spanish. A man steps out from the others. He holds something in his hand. A rope. What the hell is he going to need that for?

I don’t answer. Something about this doesn’t feel right. They remind me of the big country far east, the scary as hell one that’s always smiling.

“What is your name?”

I pause “Lovino Vargas.” I say using my human name.

“Good boy.” The man says, but there is no hint of praise or warmth “What is your business in Spain?”

What the hell? Didn’t they know? If Spain sent them-

“Trying to find my caretaker.” I say slowly.

“Hmm” said the man. “No boy” The man steps forward I shrink back. He smiles. “No, you are lying. A dear friend of ours told us exactly what you’ve done. Tell us the truth boy.”

I stare at him confused “What do you-“ I begin.

The man grows impatient and snaps at me “You ran away from your mother and father.”

I gape at him. Parents, I didn’t have parents. I have a grandfather and a brother and a bunch of shit caretakers. Where the hell is the fucking parent thing coming from?

The man leans in close to me, he smells like sweat, and holy shit- “And we knew what you stole.” The man hisses.

He smells like fucking blood.

“I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about.” I gasp, wrenching away. I stumble backward and fall to the floor. My heart is pounding in my ears as I scramble back. The fuck is this? The fuck is happening? Where the fuck is that jerk bastard Spain?

“More lies” the man tsks “We’ll get the truth out of you soon enough.”

Hands grab me roughly. “Spain!” I shout.  They turn me around and slam me against the wall. My face presses up to it and I feel the dirt and grime against my mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut as I start to panic “Spain!” I scream. I try to call out again but a hands cover my mouth. Tears spill out of my eyes as I choke on the hand. Someone gets hold of my wrists and I feel the burn of rope roughly looped around. They quickly tie the bond as I get enough sense back to try and struggle. I clamp down on the hand up against my mouth and in reward I hear a hiss of pain. I kick backward and my foot meets shin but there’s not enough force behind it to do any damage besides leave a bruise.

They are yanking me around and a stinging backhand slap sends me reeling. I fly backwards into the wall and my head smashes into the bricks causing me to see stars. I cry aloud in pain as I collapse to the ground.

I am hauled up by hands but I am to dizzy to recognize how many, or from where.  I am pushed down again belly to the floor, tasting dirt. They are doing something, I know, but I am still too disorientated to put it all together. Only one person in pushing me down but I hear more movement. My mind is screaming at me, telling me to run. The pressure on my back however makes that impossible. I struggle still though, wriggling and bucking, trying desperately to get out from under the man’s grip. it’s of no use. I wanted to wretch with fear, but my face is pressed to the ground and I would only be swallowing my own bile.

Suddenly all was still. The man who had been holding me down now hauls me up. I have recovered enough from hitting my head for the room to stop spinning.  I see in front of me, the first man, the leader.

One end of the rope is tied around my wrists. I look up and see the remaining part had been fed through a pulley at the top of the ceiling. It went up and then back down into the hands of the leader. He stared into my eyes, a sick look on his face. I had the horrible feeling that I had some idea what was about to happen. Regardless, this man was going to enjoy whatever came next.

My shoulders were starting ache. Wrists bound together behind my back made for an awkward position but before this point, I barely noticed it.

“Now we will find out the truth.”

“I swear I am telling you his truth!” I cry, tears streaming down my face once again. “I am trying to find Spain! Okay! Spain! Belgium and Netherlands have been taking care of me-“Suddenly I realizes what I was saying. No, there was no way these people knew who Spain was, nor that the personification of a country even existed. I sound insane. Oh my god, I sound insane. Christ! what are they going to do to me?

The man begins to tug at the rope.

The rope tugs my bound hands higher. I have to bend over a little bit because the rope is twisting my shoulder blades backward at an weird angle  It’s a little uncomfortable but nothing really to speak of. I can almost tell that my arms aren’t supposed to bend like that.

But the man keeps pulling. Uncomfortable become painful. My wrists tug upward and it forces my shoulder blades to rotate to unnatural positions. I whimpered as the rope heave my wrists pass ninety degrees and start moaning as they got closer and closer to vertical. The pain was white hot, knives stabbing into me. It blooms in my shoulders and arms, radiating down through my back like jutting needles. At some point I had started crying; tears dripping down my face as I gasp and splutter. My arms pull straight up, father, father.

But it doesn’t stop.

I scream as my feet lift off the ground leaving my body to gravity’s mercy. The unnatural stretching sensation through my arms and in my torso continues. And my shoulders, god my shoulders, they felt like they are being yanked out of their sockets. The pain increases tenfold after I lift off the ground. They aren’t slowly lifting me up anymore. No, they tug up all at once, then waiting a moment, then again. Each yank it sends another shot of pain down my body. I am choking on blood now; I think I bit my tongue. The tremors from my coughing are only adding to the excruciating sensations all up my arms and shoulders and back. I am sobbing uncontrollably which only jolts my aching limbs more. I can hear myself begging, but I am too far gone to care.

The man appears in front of me. I try to focus on his face but nothing was clear.

“Now tell the truth.” He whispers almost lovingly.

Through the pain I feel something take. Rage. I lift my head to look into his eyes. Anger I had gotten me through allot I thought hazily, it would get me through this. This bastard would not be the one to break Romano, heir of the Roman Empire personification of the Papal States and Kingdom of Naples. This little piece of shit human that meant nothing.  His life was a fraction of my existence. His presence on this earth meant nothing while I was fought over desperately by the most powerful beings in creation. The things I would have done to him for this. He wouldn’t be smiling then.

I spit on him.

He doesn’t like that very much.

He takes second to wipe the blood and spittle from his face, expression blank before places his hands right above my collar bone and all at once pushes down.

Pure _agony._

               


	2. Chapter 2

“Captain!” comes a voice.

Spain looks up from his assortment of reports and maps and regards the cabin boy. “What is it?” he asks.

The boy quivers under his master’s gaze. “W-we’ve spotted land,” he stuttered. “We’ll been home in a matter of hours.” A look of intense relief flashes across the boy’s small face.

“I see,” the country sighs and starts to gather up the multitudes of papers scatter before him. “Thank you.”

The boy jumps a few feet in the air before nodding too many times and running off. Spain cocks his head up to glance at where the cabin boy had been standing before he let out a little chuckle of laughter. It still surprises the Spanish man how polite normal youngsters are. It must say something about his living conditions that he expects children to be rude and unmanageable.

After a moment, Spain stands up. His coat flourishes behind him as he steps out of his cabin. The Spanish country is hit with a breath of sea air. His eyes adjust to the cloudless sky and he squints out toward the stern of the ship. Sure enough, land is just visible on the horizon.  
How disappointing.

In recent centuries, Spain had begun to feel a shift in interests. Before, his greatest focus had been unification and purification. He had been a crusader at heart, fighting for Christendom against the heretic Moors. The furthering of the Catholic Church had only been a step behind his desire to unite the kingdoms of Spain.

In those moments, 1492 had felt like the greatest year in history. On the second of January Fernand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile had conquered Granada, the last Moorish city state in Spanish territory, finally eradicating all Islamic peoples from his country.

Yet today, he believes something even greater happened in the later part of that year.

Days later, Isabel received a message from an Italian man called Christopher Columbus, requesting finance for an expedition to find a sea root to Asia. Eight months later, Spain found himself aboard the vessel the Santa Maria, heading toward horizons he’d never even dreamed of.

A new continent.

It started first as only an extension of his crusading fervor. Here was a chance to expand the reign of Christindom and convert savages to the one true faith. Clearer and clearer, though, came the staggering realization of just how much wealth these territories had to offer. He went with Columbus on all four of his expeditions and on any other boat he could board. Soon his desires went beyond riches and religions and glory to the individual need to know what existed, what lay beyond Europe and Africa and Christendom and Islam. The thrill of discovery was an overwhelming urge that sent Spain to any ship in the harbor. A thirst he could not quench for a sea that could offer not a drop to drink.

In recent years, unfortunately, the Hapsburg-Valois wars have been demanding more and more of his attention. Wasn’t it France who told him to ‘do what he loved’ with every sexual innuendo in his perverse language. Well leave it to France to contradict himself in the most flamboyant way possible. It is the northern country’s fault Spain was on some out and back journey to pick up tomato, potato, and maize plant seeds from Mexico instead of exploring the costs of Chili. He’d missed the journey out because of one or another battle that he couldn’t remember the name of now.

There was some reconciliation in the tomatoes themselves. He will have to remember to pick a handful of seeds. Romano would of course demand they sew them into the ground come spring next year. Of course, they have been depleting the soil so Spain might have to put his foot down.

Smiling to himself, Spain returns inside to catch a bit of shut eye. Returning to port is always a large production. After that he’d have to catch up on whatever he had missed in the past few months and jump to do whatever his monarch Phillip II has in mind.

He cast thoughts of politics form his mind. There is more than enough time to think on unpleasant things when the landed. The nation flops onto his bed and closes his eyes. The ship rocks back and forth, lulling him to sleep.

0  
They dock in Seville.

Rounding the southern side of Spain into the meditation sea, the galleon, named the Isabel, turns into the river Guadalquivir. They sail northeast into the river port. The nation of Spain now awakens a few hours past midday as the sip pulls into harbor.

There are many small things Spain will be needing to take care of before he can disappear into the mainland of his country. He has to oversee the unloading of the cargo and make sure his first mate, a semi-competent but incredibly green man, understands what needs to be done. Beyond that, he has to pay his crew and let the authorities in the area know he hadn’t perished in some ship wreck or pirating event.

He isn’t, however, able to do any of those things.

To his surprise and unease, when he steps out of the captain’s quarters he realizes his vessel had been bordered. Three men in red capes and cloaks stood on deck looking as serous and imposing as it seemed they could. They scan over the frightened crew, whom glance around, trying to figure out who was the Jew or Moor in disguise.

In the unlikely event that the crew had guessed right, that there is some nonbeliever on the ship, Spain would feel slightly embarrassed at not detecting and disposing of the traitor himself. But he doubts that is the case. It was just too much of a coincidence that he would be on the particular ship with a traitor. More likely they are here for him.

That does nothing to ease Spain’s mind. His government officials hardly ever confronted him in public, not wanting to draw any suspicion. The consequences of just one human getting too curious was too high for the risk. Something not only monumental, but time critical must of happened while he was gone.

But it can also be some of Spain’s own men. Spain makes it a habit to place people loyal to him in all corners of his government to reported directly if anything of any consequence occurs. TO many times his monarchs had not been as forthright with him as they should be, glossing over the bad and capitalizing on the good.

Getting a closer look he realizes that these men were most likely ones he’d implanted in the Inquisition. If they are only his men than it is unlikely it is a great matter of state, at least not one that his boss wants him to know about. It probably also isn’t of real timely importance. His men tended to get jumpy whenever they discover something. But through several life times, Spain has learned to distinguish between important and of dire consequence.

Spain tries to recall their names. So many people working under him after so many years, it was impossible to keep track of them all. One of them rushes up to him and he looks as if he is about to launch into a longwinded story.

“Later,” Spain shuts him off before the man could begin. “Somewhere more private.”

 

* * *

 

They only lead him a few meters off the boat before turning, nervously glancing at each other. They seem to have lost their former courage and now hardly dare to meet Spain’s eyes.

“What exactly is the matter?” Spain asks, tiring of their nervousness.

“It’s about Alonso.” blurts one man.

Spain grimaces. Alonso is a troublesome little creature that seems to make it his business to be a thorn in Spain’s side. Not only did he soil the good name of the Spanish Inquisition. But also is able to fool many people in his household and government into letting him do whatever he wants. He charmed the female South Netherlands completely the first time he had met her, and the same went for Phillip’s first queen Maria.

“Don’t tell me he’s gotten another boy.” Spain thinks back to the last time he’d discovered Alonso interrogating a child. It had been the first and the last time. It was clear in the malicious joy he took in torturing the boy, bordering on lust. In disgust, Spain had put a stop to any of his further dealings with small boys or adolescent men. Alonso had not taken kindly to that interference, and did everything in his power to undermine Spain for any reason.

And he still manages to get his hands on low level interrogations that suits his singular tastes.

The men look down guiltily, confirming Spain’s suspicions.

“It was rather strange.” says one of the men. “It seemed as if he’d gotten a tip from one of the higher ups, but everyone knows not to put Alonso on the tail of a child. He also said the child would be heading north, toward France and the Netherlands, yet the local police found him just around here. Alonso barely got him handed over. Only when the other commander got hold of an important looking document did he, and as reluctantly as I have ever seen anyone do anything.”

“Did you happen to get the document?” Spain asks.

The men look at him in horror.

“I suppose not.” Spain sighs. It would be an easy enough matter to get hold of it and find out who had made such an unwise decision.

“Well, you’ll show me to him.” Spain commands.

The men nod and two spring into action. One pauses and glances at the Spanish Nation.

“It wasn’t just that, though.” He says hesitantly.

“Hmm?” Spain asks.

“Well the child, he didn’t really act like a normal child.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” asks another, but the last pauses and nods his agreement.

“Juan’s right.” The third man agrees, referring to the first. “The boy was strange.”

“In what way?” Spain asks.

“It’s nothing.” The second man calls. “The boy was a foreigner, that’s all.”

“Really?” Spain says.

“Italian, I think.” The second man mentions.

 

* * *

 

 

The screams soon become audible.

It isn’t anything Spain hadn’t heard before. He had been on the battle field a hundred times in a hundred different wars. He had heard every kind of scream from every kind of person. There has to be a point where one became used to the desperate cry of someone in unimaginable pain and terror. After over fifteen centuries of existence, beginning with the Roman conquest and slaughter of the Iberians, Spain had become accustomed.

The three Inquisitors, however, had not lived through any Roman conquest. They had, however, participated in their share of interrogations and only the youngest looks adversely affected.

Spain raps on the door. The three Inquisitors stand behind him nervously.

“Get out of here! We’re doing important wor-“ the voice cut off as the door opens a crack. An eye from inside widens when he recognizes the Spanish Nation. He stutters to make amends “I-I am sorry your-“

“Let me in.”

The men jumps out of the way and couldn’t open the door fast enough. Spain brushes by him and the three men file in behind.

“Alonso,” Spain demands surveying the group of five men around him “We have spoken on this. You have been strictly forb-“ Spain cut off. Eyes landing on the figure, rope in suspending him feet above the floor. He is a small thing, crumpled, with blood dripping out of his mouth. He moans quietly in pain, delirious of all those around him.

Spain’s eyes move back to Alonso. “Do you know who that is?” he asks, voice completely devoid of emotion.

The man turns toward the Nation. “It is not my place to ask.” He replies “I do as I am commanded.”

“So you do not know?” Spain clarifies, voice low and steady.

“No.” says the man.

Spain turns to the man who had let him into the dungeon. “Your sword.” he commands. The man stares for a moment before unsheathing the weapon and offering it hilt first into the Spanish nation’s hand. Spain grasps the sword and wastes no time in thrusting it forward into the same Inquisitor’s stomach. The man’s eyes widen as he realizes he’s been stabbed. He gurgles and blood spirts out of the wound in his gut. Spain yanks the sword out and blood begins to poor out of the hole. The nation turns away as the man drops to the floor.

Silence, the rest of the men stare at their nation in shock. Spain uses this time to step forward and stab the next man, neatly dropping him in a heap.

The three men who had escorted Spain have the sense to flee immediately.

Blood dripping from his sword, Spain bears in teeth and advances on the remaining men. One steps forward, sword drawn, but Spain knocks it out of his hand in a deft motion. It skitters to the floor. These men of mere twenty or thirty years are no match for Spain’s centuries of experience. Spain impales the man and in a cry of pain, he drops to the ground as well. One tries to make a brake to his right but Spain jumps in front of him and knocks his elbow into the man’s nose, sending the shattered bone into the brain. He dies instantly. The other two were almost at the door. Alonso is a clearer shot but Spain hurls the dagger, aiming for the lesser man’s eye. It hits directly and with a scream the last man falls.

Alonso stops. He is almost out of the room but beyond was a long hallway. He couldn’t run, and if he fought, he would not win. Spain steps over the body of one of the fallen men and avoids the puddle of blood pooling on the floor.

Spain is mere inches away when he stops. He looks down at the man, breathing shallowly. This is the only indication of his rage. His face is perfectly still, his hands are steady.  
“That boy is Italy Romano.” Spain’s voice was so gentle, he could have been lulling a baby to sleep. He draws the man back and slams his head against the wall. “That boy, is like me, he is mine.” Again he cracks the man’s head against the wall. Blood was running down into Spain’s figures. “He is the nation of Southern Italy.” Again his head comes crashing into the stone wall, Alonso let out a pathetic moan of pain. Spain’s voice is rising uncontrollably “He is to the Pope what I am to his imperial majesty. Do you know what that means?” He yanks the man’s head toward him. “DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?” he roared. Alonso’s eyes flutter toward him.

Spain places his hand on the opposite sides of Alonso’s head and twists violently, snapping the man’s neck. He let the body fall to the ground and he stepped distastefully away.  
“It means you’re going to hell.” Spain finishes quietly.

 

* * *

 

 

“Romano!” shouts a voice.

I jerk forward. I’m screaming, I realize, but I can’t stop.

“Romano!” the voice shouts again. There’s someone around me, holding me, crushing me. Everything hurts, so fucking bad. I am choking on my own tears as I scream. And I still can’t stop.

“Romano, everything is going to be fine, you’re alright, I got you now. I will never let it happen again.”

 

* * *

 

 

When I wake again it wasn’t from a nightmare.

As I open my eyes, I really want to shift my body, but everything hurts so fucking much. So I don’t move. I just lay there, like a fucking rag doll.

“Are you awake?” comes a voice.

Spain. I can’t see him, but there’s no mistaking that annoying voice.

“Where the fuck were you?” I ask.

“I had no idea.” He replies, not answering the question.

“I don’t fucking care.” I spit. “Where the fuck were you?”

I hear him shifting around. I think he’s sitting on my bed but I can’t be sure. “Romano I am so-“

“Where the fucking hell were you, you bastard!!” I scream “Were the fucking hell were you god damn it answer the stupid god damn fucking question!!”

“Out at sea!” Spain cries “Men from the inquisition contacted me as soon as I landed! I could have had no idea before then.”

“What?” I ask

“Out at sea.” Something is muffling Spain’s voice. Maybe he has his head in his hands. Maybe a pillow in front of his face. I don’t fucking know, I’m not fucking looking at him.

“But-“ I stutter, “B-but what about the war with France.”

Spain pauses “With France?” he asks, he sounds really stupid right now, like he has no idea what the hell I am talking about the idiot.

“Yeah with France!” I cry “About me! The war about me!”

“That’s been over for almost a year now.” He still sounds so fucking confused, it’s pathetic really.

“The treaty-“ I trail off. And then because my life sucks, I get a fucking eyelash in my eye and I have to blink allot and shit, and my eye is watering a little bit. but it was because of the fucking eyelash, and there’s one in my other stupid eye. Fuck my life.

“A treaty?” Spain askes. God he’s so god damn fucking thick. If I didn’t hurt so much, I’d hit him. I would knock all his fucking teeth out of his stupid looking face.

“The one in France.” I say helplessly, I don’t know fucking French geography why the hell would I have bothered to learn that?

“Well I’m sure there was one.”

“Well don’t you think you should know about when your stupid country goes warring and shit and then stops warring, it’s kind of important.” I sob, but only because I hurts really fucking bad and fucking grandpa himself would be a crying if he had eyelashes and shit in his eyes and he hurt all over.

“Romano why are you crying!” Spain asks, voice overwhelmed with frustration and stupidness. He’s so stupid, so fucking stupid. Crap.

“I’m not crying bastard! It’s a-“ I try to speak. I’m shaking and its really hurting me because moving fucking sucks. “An eyelash! Goddamn it!”

“Romano!”

“Go the hell away god damn it!” Fuck. I’m crying. Fuck it. Fuck it. I don’t give a god damn shit. I’m crying? Who cares? Who give a fucking god damn shit! Not one god damn person! No one give a fucking shit about me.

Fuck.

“Romano-“

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” I scream and brake down sobbing again. “Can’t you fucking hear me? Are you deaf as well as stupid-“ my voice catches and I just give up.  
I hear the door close and I am alone. I’m being so stupid. Why can’t I just stop crying? I am Italy Romano! Freaking personification of the greatest, most important, and beautiful country in the whole world. Way better than France or Austria and a thousand times better than Spain!

The best damn it! You hear that? The best god damn country in the whole fucking world!!

 

* * *

 

 

Spain retreats from Romano’s room.

He breaths out, looking out at the view of the city Seville. The sight sickens him now and he wants to be rid of it. He knows, however, that they can’t leave until Romano is on the mend.

It’s doubtful that he will ever heal completely. Spain shrank away from those thoughts. Romano would be fine, he is a country. He would heal soon enough. It was ridiculous to think otherwise.

Spain reached into the pocket of his coat and crushed his hand around the little note the Inquisitors had relinquished to him before he’d departed.

It is the note ordering Alonso to capture and torture Romano.

It details lies. It says that he had run away from home and stolen relics from the local monastery. Even if they had been true, the crimes didn’t deserve the punishment that had been dealt out.

But it wasn’t the accusations that sent Spain’s blood boiling.

It is the signed name.

Emma Willems

The Netherlandish girl.

Spain crumples the paper harder.

There wasn’t much he can do directly. He couldn’t hurt the girl or kill her without starting a war. No harm would even be permeant anyway. Nations could heal from any harm done to them.

But the country Spain controlled the provinces of the Netherlands, and that gave Spain power to cause them much hardship.

**Author's Note:**

> SO this is supposed to lead into a novelette about the Spanish Amrada and the 80 years war. I'm writing it in October but when I'll get around to a second and third draft I don't know. See how long it took for me to get this out? I will, however have it written someday. So if you are interested in seeing this story continued, subscribe to Monster Series this is apart of and be prepared to wait another six months.


End file.
